


A Small Flame

by bigcatsandkatanas



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: M/M, one-sided Walt/Jesse more like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigcatsandkatanas/pseuds/bigcatsandkatanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walt and Jesse suffer in their own respective corners. Knocked off their feet they grieve for what they've lost and for what could come next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tick

**Author's Note:**

> just a couple of drabbles taking place after ozymandias

Winds ripped through the small cabin, a wailing noise coming from the roof chilling Walter’s soul. Alone and in his own decay, he often contemplated his mortality. The thoughts often lingered at the darkest corners of his mind, sometimes manifesting itself as shadows in his peripheries. 

Maybe the demons that haunted him found a way to manifest themselves, maybe he was going mad, maybe he was so close to death that all logic was slowly waning.  

Laying in his bed, he hardly read anything, there was nothing worth reading. He’d just stare at cracks in the wall, thinking back on times that were much simpler. Skyler’s never-ending stories about her struggles through ebay, Hank talking about the glory days of his youth, Jesse never ceasing to shut up when all Walt ever wanted was silence.

Now he’d kill for that noise but everything was dead, nothing but for the lost memories to keep him company that night.  

Hank….Jesse. 

Dead.

Walter was on that path as well, his eyes narrowed, his outstretched hand within his direct path of his gaze. Like narrow twigs they twitched, not from the cold just from the unexpected feeling that came from the pit of his stomach. An ache, not the familiar draining from his bones but another, a longing that ate him from the inside out, not very different from the cancer that had since become his companion.  

Would anyone come knock on his door? 

He found himself fantasizing, the knocking that nearly knocked his house down, he could feel it from the inside even though it was just a dream. 

The police?

Skyler?

Jesse?

God, Jesse wasn’t alive, but that watch on his wrist still ticked. 

The ring on his finger reminded him of what he lost, but that watch reminded him he still wasn’t dead.

tick. tick. tick. 

Jesse at the other side of the door, the idea never seemed to leave his mind. Walter longed for that kid again, the reckless one that fell off the roof, his eyes bright and still full of life.  That was just who was on the other side of the door, yes, him. He’d be all smiles, talking about the most absurd thing, making Walt vibrate with anger and frustration, make him feel something that wasn’t this. Anything but this. 

Was affection the word that best described what Walt now felt in his heart? He could never know, he was never the sort to be in tune with his emotions outside of the anger that always festered in him.  Just growing and growing until it encompassed him, everything before that was just someone else. 

Grabbing Jesse’s face, with his hands on his cheeks he’d overlook him, soak up the image like a sponge, taking each feature apart and putting it back together. It all added up to this unspeakable thing, something brilliant and beautiful, altogether otherworldly. This blissful creature in his hands, wallowing in filth, never seeing it’s full potential. It was maddening but just touching him, thinking of touching him was like staring straight into the sun without ever having to look away. 

But all Walter ever touched soon wilted, like the bouquet of flowers his mother would pick and put in a vase when he was a child. Walt would stare at them and grieve for them before the petals would begin to shrivel and fall off. Everything had an expiration date and although they’d be fine in the water, he knew perfectly well it was only temporary. It was best just to turn his back and walk away, preserving the memory of what once was and running from what will be. 

In reality Walt told himself Jesse was dead in a ditch, somewhere, and in no time Walt would join him but this memory wouldn’t leave him. 

Would they kiss?

He wanted a kiss, a warmth up against his lips, his shirt being pulled from the hem over his head. They’d fall to the bed.

No harm in letting the fantasy go this far, Walt rationalized. 

Falling back on all the memories that he’d once touched him, Walt relied on that to make the dream feel more real. His calloused hands on his small frame, feeling, mapping, taking, groping, every imaginable verb he’d do.  And Jesse would be a thinking, feeling thing, compliant but tangible, a little bit of fight in him just for good sport.  But god Jesse would want him, the kid would want anyone just as long as he could feel some semblance of love.  

Walt could never imagine anyone outside of Jesse ever wanting him, needing him. Jesse didn’t need to say a thing, every little choked noise, every tug at his clothing, every movement said more than enough.  Lost in the moment, in this fantasy Walt would find the remaining energy he needed just to take him, his hand pushing his chin back exposing that long pale neck. Jesse’s adam’s apple moving up and down as he’d swallow his spit in anticipation of what was next. Pink lips agape, bright blue eyes locked on his.  If there was a moment Walt would want to remember, it would be that one look, the sheer uncertainty of it would be just enough before he’d fall over the edge and never look back.  He had fallen over many edges before but this one would be the final one.  

Pressing his lips against his own hand, he tried to imagine what it would feel like to brush them against his neck but it just broke the fantasy. No softness, no youth, just an old man in his room waiting for his number to called up. His mouth felt rough, wrinkled skin, shaking him back into reality, reality wasn’t what he needed. 

The winds pressed on and although Walt wasn’t the crying type, he wished he could of been, at least just this one time. 


	2. Deep Red

One day just bled into the next, there was no way Jesse would know what time it was, it was to the point he stopped caring. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do except for that one thing.

A diarrhea colored tarp covered where there had once been stars. The wind would get caught underneath making noises Jesse remembered hearing in his childhood while riding on a sailboat with his family.

This was before all the shame, all the disappointment.

Laying on his side Jesse stared at the wall, his legs curled in like a child still in its mother’s womb.  Flashes of light would beam in on some days, other’s he wasn’t sure if his eyes were so used to the darkness that they were so strained, seeing things that weren’t really there. It was like he was in shallow water, he could scarcely breathe, his lungs full of something, not water, but something that’d make him wheeze. 

Blisters were something he’d grow used to, most days passed where he would just pick at them, peeling them, and each time he’d grow overwhelmed with surprise at the simple fact that they’d still bleed. The deep red on his fingers contrasted against everything else, this wasn’t some dream, he wasn’t in a coma sleeping his days away.

Everyone was dead and even if they weren’t, they might has well been. 

Deep red on his fingertips, deep red when they take their anger out. Anything internalized, any mind game seemed preferable to this hate manifesting itself physically.  His teeth grinding together so hard he swore he had bitten into a piece of chalk. 

Dreams were all he had, so bitter sweet.

Like some senseless habit he’d repeat the same words over and over and over again as if it were some type of prayer.

Mr. White.

Mr. White.

Mr. White.

The name of his agony and fear, the name of his savior.

Mr. White.

The only person who’d ever come to mind when they’d beat him for no reason, pulling at his ankles when he’d struggle, his nails clawing at anything begging for mercy.

Mr. White, the only person he could imagine pulling him out of this dump. The name engulfing his very being, when he’d cry in pain.  

Why?

Who on earth would do this to another person, just leave them behind to die. To look them in the eyes with such anger and fury when they had once shared the same air in that shit RV. They had gone through things, enough things to fool Jesse into thinking they had each other’s backs. He had lost everything for a man willing to feed him to the wolves, wolves that’d pick him apart just enough to still keep him alive.

Cowardly, just wasting away, praying for the death he was too afraid to inflict upon himself.

Rain hitting the tarp, it leaked through the holes, but the lightning would light it just enough so he could see the shadows of men passing.  Their laughter echoing, striking fear into him, so much that he’d lose control of himself, he’d shiver and plead almost immediately but soon enough they were gone. Lightning hitting again, he swore he saw a silhouette of someone looking over him, he knew it was nothing but an illusion.

“So fucked up, so fucked up”, he rocked back and forth, his fingertips coiling in his crunchy, oily hair, pulling at the roots just enough to wake him to reality.

Jesse would curl even more in on himself. His arms snaking his own body, mimicking the movements Walt used to do on his shoulders on his arms when he’d lose grasp on everything, the floor crumbling from underneath him. 

The difference between then and now was that he was far too aware of the floor, the hard concrete cold against his skin. Walls damp, when it’d rain but there was no medium, no comfort. When the sun was out, it would burn, no refuge from the skillet hot surface, he’d just cook, just as he’d deserve. This was hell, he was repenting for everything, all the damage.

Letting out a hissing noise would ball his hands into fists and press them against his eyes.

Through the window, Andrea just close enough that he could run out and plead for her to hide. Not loud enough, not strong enough to.

Then the gunshot, it rang through his ears, vibrated through him. It’d visit time and time again, that noise that ripped the life from her so suddenly. So frightening, he’d nearly piss himself.

Unnecessary, if only he could have kept away, if only…

So many _if only_ ’s came to mind.

And now…where was Brock? So many different scenarios filled his head like a nightmare creeping over him, a darkness with a strong hold on him, pushing him down until he cast the thought aside.

This chamber was what his mind looked like when he closed his eyes, now there was no use to close his eyes anymore, there was no escape from _this._ Hushed voices coming at every which side even when no one was there.

No one loved him, no one had ever loved him. He was so undeserving, like swine he graveled at Walt’s feet searching for scraps.

_My lucky cigarette was a loaded gun._

In the past Jesse would stare at it each time he bought a new pack, pulling out a cigarette and holding it between his pink chapped lips. Tucking in that lucky cigarette in its place, feeling some order, some security in having it around with him.


End file.
